Ask Me No Questions, I'll Tell You No Lies
by Original-Z
Summary: Quinn pushes Rachel into making a confession that will change their lives for better or for worse.
1. Ask Me No Questions

**Title**: Ask Me No Questions  
><strong>Author<strong>: Hippo_Crat  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13, for language  
><strong>Length<strong>: 705 words  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: None that I can think of  
><strong>Summary<strong>: S2 AU Quinn pushes Rachel into making a confession.  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Unrequited Rachel/Quinn, so angst.

This is a fill for a prompt on the [new] Glee Fem Meme

* * *

><p>"What a surprise to find Quasimodo in Its bell tower." The Head Cheerleader strutted into the choir room, startling the room's only occupant.<p>

Rachel stiffened. The whole school was aware that Quinn Fabray was back in charge and taking revenge on everyone who had slighted her while she was pregnant; rumor was she was nastier than ever.

Quickly the brunette began gathering her sheet music, hoping to make an escape with as little fuss possible.

"I'm disappointed to see Finn's not following you around like a big puppy. After all the trouble you went through to get him to fuck you and you're over before you've begun."

"Finn and I are very good friends, thank you for your concern, Quinn. If you'll excuse me I really should be headed home." Rachel tried to excuse herself in a dignified way before she turned tail to run. Firsthand experience with HBIC Fabray had taught her to avoid showing fear at all cost.

"You don't have any friends, Treasure Trail. Not _that_ much has changed." The words were said calmly, without malice. Quinn was just stating a fact.

Wounded brown eyes met lighter, hazel ones; they stared at one another for a moment. The taller girl almost felt guilty for the hurt look Rachel was giving her. Finally the singer turned away, she grabbed her backpack and headed for the door. Without turning back to the cheerleader Rachel spoke. "You know Quinn, just because you can't see it doesn't mean there aren't people he would wish to befriend me."

Quinn stared, dumbfounded, as Rachel began to walk away. With anger that was as sudden as it was frightening the blonde's hand shot out and grabbed the smaller girl's arm. She brutally jerked on the limb she had ensnared and twisted Rachel around forcibly. "You don't get to say shit like that and just walk away, Man Hands. I want a fucking explanation!"

"Just let it go, Quinn. You don't want to know." Rachel's normally tan skin had paled; she looked sallow and drawn and she begged the taller girl to drop the subject.

The cheerio could feel Rachel trembling in her grasp. Worried she had hurt the girl more than she had intended Quinn released the arm while moving to more effectively block the brunette's escape path. She still wanted answers. "You have _no idea_ what I want or don't want. Explain yourself."

"Get out of my way." It wasn't so much an order as it was a plea.

"**Tell**. _Me_. _**Why**_."

"Because!" Rachel yelled suddenly; her voice explosive in the small, quiet room. "Because I guess I've spent the last few years holding on to this petty, desperate hope that if you gave me a chance I could prove that I'm good enough for you. That we could be good _**together**_."

Tears began to cloud the deep brown eyes as Rachel continued her meltdown. "I thought that maybe you would look at me and finally **see** me and love what you saw. I thought that if I could show you all of that you would be able to see that I'm more than you've ever given me credit for being." The words broke somewhere in their journey from her heart to her throat. Her voice cracked with emotion as each word was wrenched from her lips with quiet agony. "I love you."

One of them gasped. Quinn couldn't' be sure it wasn't her. She wanted to do something, say something, but all she could do was watch in horror as the girl she had tormented for years fell apart.

"I love you Quinn, as wretched and pathetic as that makes me. I've felt more for you than I have for anyone. And the biggest lie I ever told myself was that one day you could look at me and feel anything but disgust." A strangled sob forced its way out of the singer's chest. "Oh God," Rachel clamped a small hand over her mouth and stared at Quinn for several seconds in a horrified silence. With tears freely streaming down her face Rachel fled.

This time Quinn made no move to stop her.

For once, Rachel was right; Quinn really _**hadn't**_ wanted to know.

"Oh, God."


	2. I'll Tell You

**Title**: I'll Tell You  
><strong>Author<strong>: Hippo_Crat  
><strong>Rating<strong>: R, for language  
><strong>Length<strong>: 1,420 words  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: None that I can think of  
><strong>Summary<strong>: S2 AU Sequel to Ask Me No Questions. The aftermath of Rachel's confession.  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Unrequited Rachel/Quinn, so angst. Also mentioned; Brittana.  
><strong>AN**: Well I _was _writing some fluffy faberry smut, but people wanted a sequel so…  
>Be careful what you wish for. *cackles madly*<p>

* * *

><p>Rachel slammed her front door shut and locked it in one fluid motion. For a long time she stood there, shaking, in the entryway as silent tears slid down the planes of her face. She couldn't be sure precisely how much time she devoted to her nervous breakdown but Rachel knew that at some point her legs had given out and she had finished her crying jag on the floor.<p>

The brunette couldn't believe how naïve, how foolish, how goddamned _**stupid**_ she'd been.

Had she really confessed her most closely guarded secret via a case of word vomit?

"_I love you."_

_One of them gasped. _

Bile welled up in Rachel's throat as she caught her second wind of panic. With newfound energy the singer bolted from her position on the ground to the nearest bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before everything she'd eaten that day made a reappearance.

Quinn was going to ruin her. Already Rachel's mind was imagining all the different ways in which the blonde girl would be able to crush her. She wondered how many flavors slushies came in.

If Rachel were being honest with herself she would admit that tomorrow morning and the reaction of her peers wasn't what had her in such a state. No McKinley high school had already done its worst to her—she had nothing to fear from its occupants.

What was really eating away at the petite teenager was the look on Quinn's face when she had made her confession.

The cheerleader had been horrified. And even though Rachel had always known that this would be the reaction she would get if ever she bolstered up the courage to make her feelings know it still hurt. It _hurt_ to know that it was possible to love someone, to hold them in so high a regard and to still be so abhorrent to them.

It hurt to still love them.

It hurt to know they could never—_**would**_ never—love you back.

Rachel couldn't help but wonder at what sort of world would allow such a beautiful emotion to take root in a human heart, to grow, to thrive and to flourish only to leave it fruitless, fallow and ill-received.

Such a thing seemed unnecessarily cruel. _Spiteful_ even.

Sapped of strength, Rachel lay there curled against the porcelain toilet of the downstairs bathroom on the cold, hard, tile floor. Alone (God, **always** _**alone**_) in her empty house Rachel Berry wept. Her sobs echoed off the walls and were—as always—her only constant companion.

Tomorrow she would hold her head high and pretend she wasn't dying inside, she would smile even as wave after wave of colored ice-water broke against her face. But tonight, tonight Rachel would continue to do the only thing she could—she would love Quinn Fabray with all her heart and embrace the pain such a foolish and hopeless love would bring. She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the wall and drifted off as she imagined a world in which Quinn had said those three words back.

Maybe tomorrow would never come.

Maybe tonight would last forever.

Maybe.

God she wished tomorrow would never come—that she could stay wrapped in the loving embrace of Dream-Quinn forever.

Maybe tomorrow would never come.

Please don't let it come.

* * *

><p>Quinn's hands shook as she fumbled blindly for her cell phone. She flipped the small piece of plastic open and connected to Santana's speed dial number from muscle memory. Several seconds passed before she heard the Hispanic teenager pick up the line. She sounded out of breath.<p>

"What d'you want? I'm in the middle of something." Santana grunted and shifted as she held herself up with one hand and used her shoulder to hold the phone to her ear.

Hazel eyes rolled in frustration. Her friends were far too predictable. "Get your fingers out of Brittany's snatch, clean your hands and listen to me. I've got a project for you." She snapped, projecting enough menace to ensure her second-in-command would comply.

"I'm so excited I can barely contain myself." Despite the measured boredom the brunette injected in her tone she sounded much clearer. Quinn was pretty sure Santana had climbed off of Brittany and was giving most of her attention to the phone call.

"Don't worry, San; you're going to enjoy this. We are going to destroy Rachel Berry." Quinn stared at the family picture that sat on her nightstand; the image made her face scrunch up in displease. Despite the scowl on her face she kept her voice light and airy.

"'**Destroy'** her, huh? Did she infect you with her love of the dramatic or something?" Santana laughed mockingly which made Quinn's frown deepen. The brunette was not taking this nearly seriously enough.

"Shut up." The blonde snarled with the authority that cemented her title of head bitch in charge in the halls of McKinley. "You are going to spread the word that Berry is untouchable. Tomorrow morning people are going to have to invent a new word for how far down the social ladder Treasure Trail will be."

"What do you want me to do?" Santana snapped back, with irritation. She was having a kickass time with her best friend and now Quinn was interrupting to talk about _Berry_ of all people.

"Absolutely nothing. No more slushies. No more name calling. No more pranks. People are to treat her like she's a wall ornament or a piece of furniture; she is to be totally and completely isolated." Quinn was triumphant. Her plan was as elegant as it was cruel. Rachel Berry was someone who needed an audience to survive and Quinn was going to take that away. The blonde stood and began to pace her room—she was filled with a nervous energy and had nothing to take the edge off.

"She'll hate that." The Hispanic girl's voice was uncharacteristically somber.

"I know." The blonde smirked in satisfaction and stopped as she caught a glimpse of herself in her full-length mirror. "I want it known that anyone who so much as _looks_ at her in a friendly manner will get a slushy facial every hour on the hour until I feel nice enough to call it off." The gold cross, a permanent fixture around her neck, caught the light and gleamed in the mirror. She stared at it, rapt with fascination until Santana's voice roused her from her thoughts.

"What about glee?" Santana stared into Brittany's brilliantly blue eyes as she unwittingly voiced what she was thinking.

Quinn scoffed. "Are you sporting lady wood for that Furby, Santana? You're awfully soft on the bitch all of a sudden." Santana had to be on her side. She _had _to. Quinn couldn't do it alone.

"Like hell I am. I don't give a fuck about what happens to Berry—I just don't want anything to fuck glee club up this year; Brittany likes it too much." Santana really didn't have anything _**against**_ Rachel, per se, it's just—well, she didn't have anything _**for**_ her either. The tiny, irritating brunette had never done her any favors.

"Fine whatever; make an exception for school assignments. But if I think they're lying just to talk to her slushy facials and dumpster tosses will be the least of their problems." She was willing to make a multitude of concessions if it would make Santana an active accomplice.

Santana sighed in resignation. "Consider it done, Quinn."

"Good. Tell Britt I said 'hi'."Quinn stared at the girl in the mirror; pretty blonde hair, stunning hazel eyes and a pristine red, white and black cheerleader uniform. Yes, she was certain this girl was still her—she was just out of practice—any minute now things would be back to normal.

Any minute now.

Quinn threw herself back onto the bed and stared at the boring, white ceiling. "Good night, S."

"Quinn," Santana said suddenly, stopping the blonde from disconnecting. "Just—what the hell did she _**do**_?" Something had to of happened. This all seemed so out of the blue and _unnecessary_.

"Make sure Finn knows what the penalty will be if he gets the balls to try and buck the system." She said quietly, before hanging up.

Alone now in her empty house Quinn Fabray clenched her hazel eyes shut and tried to stop the pain through sheer force of will—the same way she'd spent years stopping the tears.

God she wished there was someone on this planet who hated her more than she hated herself.

Any minute now.

Please.


	3. No Lies

**Title**: No Lies  
><strong>Author<strong>: Hippo_Crat  
><strong>Rating<strong>: R, for language  
><strong>Length<strong>: 4, 135 words  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: Preggers  
><strong>Summary<strong>: S2 AU Sequel to I'll Tell You. You've read about Rachel's confession and Quinn's reaction, here's how it ends.  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Rachel/Quinn, but angst-y like a mofo.  
><strong>AN**: This is absolutely finished. (It wouldn't end!) Hope everyone enjoys.

* * *

><p>Rachel Berry carefully placed the large duffel bag filled with clothing inside her trunk. She was prepared for an unprecedented ten slushy attacks; two changes of clothing would be kept on hand in her rolling backpack while the other seven could safely be kept in her car in case of dire straits.<p>

The petite brunette entered McKinley high school the same way she did every day—with her back straight, her head held high and a smile on her face. No matter how she felt on the inside it would never do to show fear before the masses; these ignorant yokels fed on fear.

She made it to her locker without incident—a rarity even at the best of times. No one jostled her in the crowd, no one tried to kick her backpack out of her grasp, and there were no slushies or unkind words or any sort. In fact, people seemed to unconsciously make room for her and let her pass unmolested.

Rachel was absolutely petrified waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Yesterday she had blurted out less than platonic feelings for the paragon of good Christian heterosexuality and today there were no reprisals? No, something bad was happening in Lima.

Down the hall one teenager seemed to tower over the rest, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Rachel perked up immeasurably at the sight of one of her only friends. With a disturbing amount of ease the tiny girl traversed the hall and walked up to Finn. "Good morning, Finn. I hope you're not too tired from your, undoubtedly strenuous, evening of violent videogames and bad pornography as we're learning a new number in glee today."

Finn stared straight ahead into his locker and ignored the girl at his side.

Rachel was somewhat concerned she had gone too far in her jest and sought to smooth things over. "I'm sorry, Finn, that was a rather tasteless joke—"

The football player grabbed the door to his locker and clenched his hands around the metal; his strong grip forced the blood from his knuckles as he shook his head miserably—still refusing to look at Rachel. She watched in confusion as Finn closed his locker and hurried off without a word.

* * *

><p>"Noah! Good morning, I trust I will be taking notes for you today while you have your daily siesta during pre-calculus?"<p>

Puck stiffened as Rachel approached him. His eyes darted uneasily as he looked for anyone paying him and Rachel any more attention than was strictly necessary. Shit, this situation sucked—Puck didn't really have a problem with Rachel; as far as ex-girlfriends go Rachel was a pretty cool Jewess but loyalty had to go to baby mamas first.

Besides word was out; any guy caught talking to Berry would be blue-listed with the cheerios—no cheerleader would ever fuck a blue-listed dude and Noah Puckerman was a sex-shark.

"Sorry, Rach." He muttered softly out of the corner of his mouth as he walked away leaving an increasingly concerned Rachel Berry behind.

* * *

><p>All of Rachel's attempts at conversation were met with the same stonewall of silence.<p>

Artie, Tina, Mercedes and Mike had each either stared blankly at the empty space above her head or ran/rolled the other way when they saw her coming.

Students in the hallways parted ways around her, enclosing the girl in a small, unbroken bubble of personal space. They avoided physical contact like she was an Untouchable.

* * *

><p>While she wouldn't like to admit it if asked—although at this point she would admit anything if it meant someone was <em>talking<em> to her—Rachel's nerves were rattled. She was aware that this isolation was part of Quinn's punishment for her but she wasn't sure how long it was supposed to last.

If the singer knew precisely how long her sentence was to be she could endure.

There was one person at WMHS who would both know the answer to her question and be eager to talk with her.

* * *

><p>"Jacob, I would like to appeal to your formidable knowledge of all things happening on the social grape vine." Rachel said primly as she sidled up to the gossip hound.<p>

Jacob ben-Israel, often noted for his impressive 'jew-fro' and his _fondness_ for Rachel Berry, bolted for the men's room.

* * *

><p>"Becky—"<p>

The short cheerio clamped her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut and sped away while chanting to herself.

* * *

><p>Rachel made it all the way through three periods and through most of the fourth before she couldn't take it anymore. In each class her peers seemed to pretend her seat was empty and talked around her. Her teachers, long in the habit of ignoring the enthusiastic girl, didn't even notice when she was too preoccupied with her thoughts to raise her hand.<p>

Fourth period, though, was Study Hall and the generally accepted daily meeting of Glee Club. Rachel had entered the room, hopeful that the practice room would remain a sanctuary and that things would be normal here, and sat next to Finn.

Her ex got up and changed seats.

Still, even though she was left sitting alone—a small island unto herself—Rachel was determined not to act like there was anything out of the ordinary going on. As she had planned several days ago Rachel pitched an idea for a solo for herself at sectionals.

Mr. Schuester had bobbed his head and nodded like he was listening. When she was finished he addressed the room and offered to put it to a vote.

The gleeks were silent as none of them were sure if this was a situation in which talking would be permitted—besides with three cheerios in the room, including the two who had put out the moratorium, no one wanted to seem like the person who was actually friends with Berry. Mercedes cleared her throat and was about to speak when the silence was broken by a voice.

**Her **voice. The voice that had haunted her sleep for more nights than she could keep track of suddenly broke the tension. "No need, Mr. Schue. Rachel can do whatever she wants."

The short brunette turned and looked at the cheerleader. Hazel eyes met brown and even as Quinn's lips curled into a satisfied smirk Rachel was more distressed to realize it was the first time anyone had made eye contact with her that day. Very deliberately Quinn broke eye contact with the diva and returned her attention to the Spanish teach cum Glee Club coach.

It was only when their practice deteriorated into a jam session—which Rachel was _in_ but not a part of—that she began to feel overwhelmed.

Rachel left the practice room quietly, not trying to draw any attention to herself.

Santana watched.

* * *

><p>On her way to the parking lot Rachel took a corner too fast and too sharply. As a result she almost bumped into David Karofsky who was headed in the opposite direction.<p>

The beefy jock swerved out of her way, instinctively, without breaking his stride.

Rachel couldn't breathe.

* * *

><p>Rachel crawled into the back seat of her car and curled up into the fetal position. She wasn't certain how long she lay there before her shaking stopped and her ability to breathe normally returned. The teen climbed into the front seat and started the car—today would be written off. Rachel would skip the rest of the day for the sake of her mental health and prepare for Monday morning.<p>

* * *

><p>Monday, being Columbus Day, brought a brief reprieve for the heartbroken teenager.<p>

Instead of taking advantage of a fantastic day off Rachel spent most of her day sitting on the floor by her bed reading and rereading her MySpace comments. Sometime during the evening Rachel realized that it was almost pitch black in her room and that her laptop's LCD screen was the only source of light in the room.

Instead of getting up and turning on the light Rachel simply closed the laptop and climbed between her sheets.

She was vaguely aware that she had neither called her fathers nor eaten during the course of the day. However, since her fathers hadn't called she figured she was okay to wait until morning to make contact and as for the food—her stomach rolled rebelliously at the thought—it would also keep until morning.

* * *

><p>It had been almost two weeks since she had had a conversation with someone in her age group that was more substantial than divided group work for class assignments.<p>

In that relatively short amount of time Rachel had taken to staring at the ground when she walked—it was easier to blame lack of eye contact on her not trying to initiate it than to absorb the idea that no one ever looked at her anymore.

Around three weeks in Rachel noticed she was talking less and less—her teachers seldom called on her and she was less than a non-entity to her classmates so really, what was the point?

* * *

><p>She skipped sixth period again. It was the sixth time in less than a month, which meant she would soon be attracting negative attention but Rachel found it necessary. Sixth period was the only class she had with Quinn and sitting in the same small space without the distraction was far too painful. On the occasions she actually showed up for class Rachel would catch herself staring at the blonde with the familiar feeling of longing welling up in her chest. Every time it happened she would hate herself (not Quinn, never Quinn) just a little bit more for being so disgustingly pathetic.<p>

It was no wonder Quinn couldn't love her—or even _like_ her—back.

* * *

><p>Rachel had skipped their shared history class, <em>again<em>.

Quinn stared at the empty desk.

Before this year Quinn couldn't remember a day when Rachel had willingly missed _**one**_ class let alone _**six**_. She wondered where Rachel went when she skipped and how she explained her absences to both her two gay dads and her teachers.

Quinn wished Rachel would stop skipping; sixth period was the highlight to the cheerleader's day. Today she would take advantage of the other girl's absence; since she was missing there would be no one to tell the brunette that Quinn had requested to be her partner for the group project.

Maybe Rachel skipped History to sleep in the nurse's office like Puck did.

She hoped so; lately the brunette had been looking rundown and listless.

* * *

><p>It was weird what human beings could get used to. Santana reflected as she watched people pivot around Rachel Berry—she was sure most of them no longer thought about avoiding her, just like most of them didn't used to think twice about dousing her with icy beverages.<p>

Less than two months ago these same students were shoving, slushying and ridiculing the same girl their eyes now effortlessly past over.

By the same token the obnoxious loud-mouth that was Rachel Berry had become something else, something _less_. Gone were the bright colors and patterns that made Berry such a well-loved target, in their place was simple clothing—jeans and oversized hoodies, mostly—in drab colors. In fact, in Santana's opinion, the girl was a half-step away from being drafted into an emo boy band.

Of course that would require her to sing and Berry had all but stopped _that_ a month ago.

Santana watched Rachel hug to the wall of lockers as she walked through the halls, the tiny girl's posture was off—instead of the military-esque stiff spine she walked curled in on herself in an attempt to seem smaller. Her eyes were locked on the floor in front of her; it was rare if her eyes reached a point above anyone's kneecaps.

The Hispanic teenager wasn't sure if all the hoodies Rachel wore were because the singer was cold or because she was looking to hide her extreme weight loss.

Berry past directly in front of Santana and the cheerleader had to bite back a snort; if Berry though a sweatshirt was going to hide the sunken eyes, the overly prominent collarbone, the gaunt cheeks or the sallow skin tone she was an idiot.

The girl was looking far too skinny and Santana felt like she was channeling her mother for a second—trying to fatten people up, feeling all maternal and shit—but the brunette was almost emaciated; thinsperation material even. _God_, she wanted to tell the girl to eat a fucking cheeseburger and fries or something.

But she didn't. She couldn't because even though she had been watching the girl's progress up the hallway somehow she had stopped _seeing_ Berry and had lost track of the girl.

It was funny what people could get used to.

It really was.

Funny, that is…

* * *

><p>Rachel stood in her backyard and fumbled with the lighter in the brisk evening weather. Her breath came in visible clouds in quick bursts as her frustration mounted. Finally she pulled off her glove with her teeth and without the cotton impediment Rachel was able to light the blunt.<p>

The brunette took a deep drag and held the smoke in her lungs for a long moment before she slowly let the gas escape in a white cloud.

It was the day after Thanksgiving and Rachel's dads had left hours ago; Lima being a brief layover between their flight from New York and their flight to Bali.

Yesterday she barely had any appetite for the expensive catered dinner her fathers had procured—Daddy had voice his concerns but Rachel told him it was because she wasn't feeling well; her parents had spent the rest of their visit avoiding her so they wouldn't catch it and take it with them on vacation.

Marijuana was a good way for her to stimulate her lethargic appetite while also affording her the relaxation necessary for a better night's sleep. The downside, of course, was the potential for damage to her vocal cords but she had weighed the pro's against the con's and determined that self-medicating was a better option than having to actually speak to someone and get help.

* * *

><p>Quinn staggered down the hallway weighed down by three loose-leaf copies of the cheerios playbook as she headed for Coach Sylvester's office. Since each playbook was thicker than two phonebooks it could hardly be considered her fault that she couldn't see where she was going—really bumping into someone was inevitable.<p>

Still, she was caught quite off guard by the collision and dropped all her papers when she hit an obstruction in the form of a person.

"Ooph—" The human wall grunted unattractively as it hit the floor.

Quinn looked down at the mess and felt her blood pressure climb higher and higher as each second ticked by. "Watch it!" She snarled as she glared at the idiot who got in her way.

"I'm sorry, Quinn." Rachel mumbled softly from her spot, sprawled on the ground. Quickly the nervous brunette got on her knees and scrambled to put the papers back into order. Quinn watched the spectacle dumbly, too shocked to come up with anything appropriate to say.

Deciding not to break her own rules any further Quinn crouched down and gathered her papers. She accidentally brushed her hand across Rachel's and frowned when she realized the normally girl's normally tan skin was nearly as pale as her own.

Curious Quinn looked at Berry more intently. Rachel's eyes were glued to her task but it was no trouble for Quinn to see the dark circles under her eyes and the bony wrists poking out the end of the ridiculously large hooded sweatshirt. Rachel looked _sick_. The blonde girl's jaw began to clench as she sought to keep her temper in check. Her endeavors were aided by the fact that she wasn't sure who she should even be mad _**at**_.

While Quinn was busy with her visual assessment Rachel had finished reassembling the pile she had helped knock over. With trembling arms she held the recollected pile out for the cheerleader to reclaim.

When the taller girl once again took charge of the burden Rachel stepped back, eyes somewhere around Quinn's ankles. "I'm really sorry." She murmured, even softer than earlier, before she walked away hugging to the lockers even in the empty hallway.

If Quinn's stomach was in knots it was because of Sue Sylvester's Colon Cleanse.

* * *

><p>"Open the fucking door, Skeletor, or I'll break it down!" The heavy oak door trembled beneath the panicked onslaught of Quinn's fists. Rachel's car was in the driveway and the blonde was almost certain she had seen one of the curtains on the front window move—Berry was home and Quinn wasn't leaving until she had gained entrance.<p>

The door opened suddenly and Quinn had to yank her arm back to keep from accidentally punching the petite girl in the face.

"What do you want, Quinn?" Rachel asked, her voice monotone. The singer stared dully at a point somewhere around the taller blonde's knees. Quinn couldn't really remember the last time warm brown eyes had locked onto her own.

The head cheerleader swallowed forcefully, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat. She roughly pushed Rachel aside and walked into the brunette's house like she owned the place. Quinn stalked into the kitchen and threw the refrigerator open. There was a wilted salad on the third shelf, some soymilk far beyond its expiration date, a bevy of condiments, a couple dozen water bottles and a loaf of what appeared to be pumpernickel bread. Quinn clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to reign in her temper.

This beyond confirmed her fears—what she had been stewing over since that stupid incident in the hallway—Rachel wasn't taking care of herself.

"What are you doing in my house?" The painfully thin girl asked again, no change in her tone. By all rights Rachel should be upset—no, _**furious**_, at this invasion of her personal space. Two months ago Quinn's actions would have garnered her with a rant of epic proportions on the proper etiquette of gaining entrance to a person's domicile, but tonight Rachel only sounded impossibly tired.

She _**was**_ impossibly tired.

And it was all Quinn's fault.

Quinn took a great lungful of air and tried to remember the apology she had spent days drafting. She exhaled with almost violent force and wheeled around on the younger teen. "Are you trying to look like a poster child for some Third-World county, Rachel? If so you're doing a fucking amazing job—I've seen more food on my cheerio's plates at lunch-time on a weigh-in day."

Rachel sighed. The air escaped her lungs in a despondent hiss, as if the carbon dioxide she was expelling was too tired to fully disperse in a proper 'whoosh' sound. "Can I get you something to drink?" The brunette asked, lifting her eyes almost all the way up to the blonde's belly button.

When Quinn failed to respond Rachel moved to the refrigerator and retrieved two plastic bottles; one she set next to her on the counter and the second she opened and proffered to the cheerleader standing in her kitchen. For a long moment all Quinn could do was stare at the bottle in disbelief. She tried to catch Rachel's eye in order to read her expression but once again the brunette's face was downturned as she stared a hole through Quinn's sneakers.

It was unfortunate for Rachel that she wasn't watching Quinn, if she _had_ been watching she wouldn't have been caught off guard when the blonde teenager slapped the bottle out of her hand. Water splashed across the kitchen—neither girl paid any mind to the fact that both of their clothes were absorbing the evidence of Quinn's temper tantrum.

"What the _**fuck**_ is your problem, Berry!" Quinn exploded.

Instinctively Rachel flinched back violently, already caving to the signs of the other girl's anger. The taller girl could see the tremors begin to wrack the singer's gaunt form.

"I've spent the last two months coming up with ways to torment you. I've spent two months watching as you've come apart at the seams." Quinn smirked and added viciously. "I've enjoyed the show." The blonde watched Rachel closely waiting for a reaction—it was impossible to gauge whether her words were hitting her mark when the singer refused to look at her.

"Look at me." She commanded, only to growl in frustration when Rachel shook her head feebly and sniffed back tears. The cheerleader grabbed the shorter girl by the chin and forced her head up. "Look at me." Hazel eyes locked onto brown as Quinn desperately tried to read the emotions swirling in Rachel's eyes.

She saw pain.

She saw heart-wrenching sorrow.

She saw pity.

She even saw compassion.

What Quinn didn't see was the one emotion she had actively tried to cultivate in Rachel over the last several years of their lives. She didn't see hate.

And that pissed her off.

"Why don't you hate me?" She yelled, her hand constricting in anger. Quinn was faintly aware she was probably bruising the delicate flesh in her grasp but she couldn't bring herself to stop. "Why don't you hate me, damnit? I've spent years _**obsessing**_ over ways cause you the most pain—I broke your heart—and even after all that you've never once looked at me with the hatred I deserve."

Rachel looked up at Quinn, unshed tears caught in her long eyelashes. When she spoke her voice was thick with swallowed sorrow. "I don't hate you, Quinn;" Rachel said mournfully, genuine regret coloring her words. "I don't think I _**can **_hate you. I love you, Quinn—I've _always_ loved you," She paused briefly, gathering all remaining courage for her next words. "but I've never liked you."

Quinn sucked down a shuddery breath as she processed that harsh but unequivocal truth. Slowly, she forced herself to release her hold on Rachel. Much to her surprise the brunette continued to hold eye contact even as tears steadily streamed down her face. "I have to say that I've never really like me either."

This was all wildly off script. Nothing today had gone the way Quinn had intended, but her innate ability to think on her feet was what had landed her the coveted position of youngest head cheerleader in the history of the cheerios—she could adapt to the situation and what this situation called for was the kind of unvarnished, unflinching honesty the Rachel Berry of old had been known for.

"I don't know what I want. Ever. It's been a really long time since I've done something because _**I**_ liked it, or because _**I**_ wanted to do it. Why should I bother figuring out what makes me happy when it is **so****much **easier to do what other people want? It's much less frightening to take their goals and values and beliefs and make them my own—at least that way I don't have to worry that I'm wrong." Quinn stared into bloodshot brown eyes as she tried earnestly to get her point across.

"That _what I __**want**_ is wrong. I was so afraid of being a disappointment, of being someone other people hated that I became someone I hated; someone who had to surround themselves with people because I couldn't stand being left with only myself." Quinn stopped suddenly because she realized she had to make something **explicitly** clear to Rachel in this moment.

"This is not an apology. I wouldn't dare—you deserve more than—" Uncharacteristically, she stumbled over her words.

"There is no apology good enough for the hell I put you through just because you could be honest with me about your feelings when I was terrified **of** feeling. I could spend the rest of my life apologizing and still come up short."

An indeterminate amount of time passed where Quinn simply stared at Rachel who returned the favor.

"I can't ask for a second chance—or even a third chance. God knows you've given me more than any one person has a right to ask for, but I wouldn't be Quinn Fabray if I didn't push things. I'm asking for another chance. A _**final**_ chance. I'm also asking for your help because there's no way I can become someone whose reflection I like to see in the mirror without you and because I want the person you love to also be someone you can _**like**_."

Rachel raised a trembling hand and brushed the back of her hand against the soft skin of Quinn's face.

Quinn smiled.

Rachel smiled back.


End file.
